7 11
by treacle-antlers
Summary: post:'Storyteller'up to:'Lies' A quartet of ScoobySpike stories from the POVs of Xander, Willow, Dawn and Giles.
1. Part1: Xander

**7-11  
****  
Part1: Xander**  


  
They're all out of Tatertots again, and apparently this constitutes some kind of crisis.   
  
My suggestion that the skinny one with the pigtails improvise with some actual root vegetables goes down like a ton of bricks, and now they're all looking at me like I just told them rock and roll was the devil's music. I try to act like they don't make me feel like some middle-aged spaz in a kitchen full of hard-eyed, sharp-tongued post-pubescents but I'm guessing that, Chosen as they are, they can all smell the fear coming off me in waves.  
  
I can't pretend they don't make me nervous as hell, because they do. Which is kinda odd when you think that over the last six years I've been working on a relaxed attitude to pretty much everything, and when I say everything I mean the kind of crazy shit that even John Constantine would run screaming from. Not that I'm comparing myself to him. I'm not. For starters, he's British and he has this whole silent, ice-cool, casually-lethal thing going on, all of which leads me to question yet again why they'd even _think _about Keanu Reeves for the role. I'm mean, just on a purely _physical_ level he's all wrong, plus no one should ever have to listen to him do that accent again. Dick Van-Dyke made a more convincing Cockney.   
  
Wait, what was it I was saying before? Oh yeah, that I'm not comparing myself to him in any way. Constantine, not Dick Van-Dyke. Although, I think I'm safe in saying that, these days, the Xanman is phased by very little that walks, lumbers or slithers.   
  
Teenage girls are another thing entirely. They're all looking back at me and I try like hell not to let my eyes drift over to the left, where I'm almost sure one of them is hovering in the doorway in nothing but a pair of baby-doll pyjamas.  
  
"O.K. Tatertots. Anything else?"  
  
As I reach into my back pocket to check my wallet, I'm not holding my breath for anyone else to help me out. The other Scoobies aren't exactly bringing in the big bucks these days - what with the forcible unemployment, student loans and the extra-crispy place of business. They say they feel bad, that it's just temporary, that they'll pay me back somehow, but I don't care so much. Supplying the basic needs has become kinda my role in the team, and although sometimes it bugs me, I don't resent it. We all do our part.  
  
That's the team: the hard core. The Potentials I'm having a harder time seeing as part of that yet. For one, they keep dying on us and for two - they're all pretty much still kids, in mind at least. Most of them are almost the same age as Dawnie, but hearing them talk about stuff they think they understand they sound a whole lot younger. Plus as far as being pains in the asses about simple stuff like chores, official lights-out and keeping the house tidy, they pretty much have her licked.  
  
Listening to them, I can hear the ugliness starting to kick in and the headache that's been lurking around the base of my skull all day starts to make serious trouble. They're searching around the cupboards for more things they can add to the scrawl that already covers two sides of a notebook, and I know that itd be pretty pointless to mention to them how hard I work for this money. That there's my own rent to come out of my pay check, plus utility bills and a car to run and could I sound any more like my old man?  
  
One of them, the one who doesn't seem able to keep her mouth shut when she breathes, says,  
  
"Mr. Harris, can I get some Hohos? Like a whole shitload? Because when I'm on, they're like all I can eat."  
  
I close my eyes for a moment and hear Rona tell her to shut up - that I don't want to hear stuff like that. I thank her. Silently. I like Rona.  
  
They scribble a couple more things and Dawn says,  
  
"Oh, and we need something to clean the oven. Put down oven-cleaner."  
  
She smiles at me sort of painful and apologetic as she says it though, and I try to remember she'd not one of them. I also try to forgive her the $8 or $9 I know that'll probably cost.  
  
"It was Amanda's turn to make dessert last night and it kinda exploded."  
  
"I think it was banana-cream pie."  
  
"Whatever. She's cleaning it up."  
  
No fair...Shannon's on clean-up today.  
  
I swapped with Kennedy for Friday!  
  
Mid snark, they're distracted and it seems like I good time to make a break for it. I grab my keys and I'm already half way out the door when Buffy appears from behind all the Potentials and grabs my sleeve. Her hair's all bright and bouncy around her shoulders, but her eyes look somewhere between apologetic and plaintive. I try not to feel pissed that she wants to add something else to the list.  
  
"I know Buff. You need laundry detergent. I got it."  
  
"Oh, yeah...thanks."  
  
She smiles at me, and it's like a widescreen version of Dawnie's earlier expression: contrition with a side of wary. She lowers her voice just a fraction and turns us away from the others so they can't hear.  
  
"Xan, can I ask you a favour?"  
  
What with my new role as personal shopper and concierge for eleven teenage girls, I'm pretty much au fait with the feminine hygiene aisle these days. I'm about to tell her that that's OK too - that I conquered that particular Everest a while ago - but then she just blurts the next sentence out.  
  
"Will you take Spike with you?"  
  
Still surrounded by tiers of panty-pads my brain smacks up short, and I have to take a step back into the room just so I can be sure I actually just heard her say what I think she said. She doesn't repeat it though, she just does that thing with her eyelashes that once when I was pretty drunk I told her no red-blooded man on earth could ever hope to resist. I have to say that now I'm a little pissed at her turning it back on me.  
  
"No...what?! No!"  
  
She gives me another kind of look, a lot less seductress and a bit more soft and pleady, but I'm still not caving. The memory of the last time I had to ferry that creepy, death-smelling jerk across town is suddenly coming back to me in waves, and I feel kinda nauseous at just the thought of spending even half an hour sitting across from him in the kind of complete silence that isn't even broken with breathing.  
  
"No, Buffy. No. He's a ...I don't want him in my car."  
  
She shrugs; the small soft shrug, another one from the arsenal, and touches the back of my hand with the tip of a finger.  
  
"Xan, he's a guy too you know."  
_  
_Which is of course debatable, but I let that one slide.  
  
"So what? What does that mean? Andrew's a guy...sort of...and you ask me to take him shopping."  
  
"I think you may be a bad influence on him. He's ten times more annoying when you're around."   
  
She's acting all jokey, but I know what she's trying to do. She's trying to get me to look at her, but I'm still mad about the whole eyelash batting thing.   
  
"And Spike's going crazy cooped up here with a house full of teenage girls. Yesterday he...he ordered pizza just so he could talk sports to the pizza guy."  
  
She gives me the last in her collection; the little, tiny, big-eyed smile, and I realise that at some point I'm going to have to concede defeat to her, although I refuse to be in any way graceful about it.  
  
"Why doesn't he call Clem? Or that guy with the tusks? He could go down to Willy's, or trawl a sewer or two. There's got to be a pal crawling round out there for him somewhere."  
  
"He doesn't fit in there any more Xander. You know that."  
  
I'm still mad at her but it's starting to tail off, until I follow her gaze across the kitchen and see him slouched in the door frame looking at us. His hands are shoved deep inside the pockets of that filthy black leather he's taken to wearing again, and his expression reminds me eerily of a bullterrier my Dad once won in a bet.   
  
Sparky.  
  
He's taunting me, I know it. Not smiling exactly, but there's a trace of something on his lips, (other than the dried blood I mean), and I know what he's thinking. He looks at me in exactly the same way that Sparky did just before he jumped up and sunk his teeth right into my nuts.  
  
"O.K." I say.  
  
And I can hardly believe what I'm doing. I'd rather have a root canal than spend more than a minute in the guy's company, but seeing his pupils narrow fractionally as he hears me almost makes the sacrifice worth it. He might be all soul-having now, but I knows something about him that Buffy doesn't. He still likes to think we're all scared shitless of him. That part of him will never change; the demon part, and I'm guessing that's not something he'll ever share with Buffy during their late night cellar-chats.   
  
She's smiling at me now, a real smile with her eyes all sparkly, and deep down my gut twists a little knowing that that's because she thinks this'll make him him happy. She jumps up to hug me, and I feel her lips brand my cheek with a brief candy-pink kiss.  
  
"Thanks, big brother. I owe you one."  
  
And that's me. Reliable, platonic ol' Xander. Always the big brother, never the dangerous, crazy-in-love-with, romantic lead. But never the one who leaves her either, never the one who breaks her heart. It's another role I play pretty reluctantly, but I know it's mine. I've accepted it, and maybe Spike could do with a few lessons in acceptance too.   
  
Locking eyes with him across the kitchen I see that start of smirk die on his lips as he realises, for the first time since he got that government hardware chopped out of his brain, I'm not looking away. He thinks I don't know him, like he's all mysteriouso creature of the night', but I see him, I see right through him. Tilt my head to one side and narrow my eyes, then watch the little spark of irritation flare up as he slowly realises whose patented slouch I'm ripping off.  
  
"Nosferatu. So are you coming or what?"  


  
* * * * * *  
  


It takes me exactly three minutes to admit that I was wrong, in which time I've thought of at least seventeen other things I could have done to prove he doesn't bother me.   
  
Because he bothers me.   
  
Especially now, in my own car, the one place I always feel completely safe and totally in control. Even with the windows rolled down and the air-conditioning turned up to drown out the oh-so-obvious sound of his lungs not working, it's like he's something caught in the corner of my eye. A great big black and white flake of crap that I can't get out.  
  
Reaching around in the glove, I finally manage to find a tape and slap it into the machine. The few seconds it takes to spool to the start seem like an eternity, but then the opening bars of my current favourite song fill the silence and I feel my mood instantly mellow. Driving around at night with the volume turned way the hell up is my idea of heaven, and I've almost achieved complete denial of Spike's presence when he suddenly moves and reminds me that he's there.  
  
This White Stripes'?  
  
He clears his throat, and the sound is like fingernails down the chalky blackboard of my mind.  
  
Yeah. New album.  
  
I dart a glance to one side ready for the inevitable diatribe on modern music, but he's just leaning out the window staring into the dark.   
  
He does a lot of that these days. Staring into space. Sometimes with his eyes focused way off on something in the distance, but more often just at his feet. It wouldn't bother me except that he never used to do that sort of thing, and if anything it's more unnerving than the talking - which was always far more irritating than scary. Although I'm pretty sure that's one of the main reasons he never managed to kill any of us. There's nothing he likes more than a captive audience.  
  
Talking Spike was easier. Get him on an interesting subject, compliment his dress sense and you'd always buy yourself a few precious extra minutes. Silent Spike is harder to get a handle on and, looking back to the road, I realise that maybe that's what bothers me so much about being around him these days.   
  
Not the fact that he's a vampire. The fact that he isn't _quite _one.  
  
I risk another glance to the side. His face is calm and expressionless as he listens to the music, and for just a split second I actually consider asking him what he thinks of it, how it measures up to what he considers to be the classics'. But then he frowns, reaches up to pick something from between his front teeth and I remember.  
  
Oh yeah.  
  
Jerk.  
  


  
* * * * * *  
  


He's out of the door before I've even set the parking brake, and I see a couple of girls turn and watch him as he stalks past them, lighting a cigarette up as he goes.   
  
I've seen them all do it, women twice my Mom's age and girls half Dawn's. Their eyes sliding off whoever they're talking to, to track him down the street. Part of me understands it. Not because_ I see it myself_, just because I'm an intuitive heterosexual guy with many, many female friends. Spike's got something about him that naturally draws women's attention. If I could sum it up in an equation, I'm thinking it would go something like: hair + boots + coat x ruthless and pathological immortal killer = sexy. They also seem to like the abs.  
  
Stepping out of the car, I can't help but notice the way the same two girls barely skim over me before returning their eyes like laser beams to his skinny disappearing behind. I snap open a box of orange tictacs and drop one in my mouth. Like I said before.  
  
Undead.  
  
Jerk.  
  
  


* * * * * *  
  


I grab a basket because of course he didn't take one.   
  
As far as I remember, Spike's idea of shopping seems to consist of selecting items at random from the shelves, based on their colour or packaging design, reading the contents and then snorting loudly to himself at some private joke before shoving them back on a different shelf.  
  
Avoiding even looking in his direction, I walk purposefully towards the frozen foods in search of Tatertots. A girl with long tanned legs and even longer tawny brown hair is standing staring through the glass of the chiller cabinet, and I lean past her to get some peas. As I drop them into the basket our eyes meet briefly.  
  
Apparently these may contain nuts.  
  
She smiles at me, and the lights seem to dim a little. She has eyes like melting chocolate drops and soft, glossy skin. I start to smile back, open my mouth to tell her how even packets of nuts now also have to bear that warning, and then I see him. A few paces behind her. Holding up five large blue packages. It takes me a second or two to recognise the Tampax branding. He raises an eyebrow questioningly, and I feel the smile freeze on my lips.  
  
Girls wanted these.  
  
He dumps them all into the basket. Drops in a bottle of Jack Daniels on top.  
  
That's for me though.  
  


* * * * * *  
  


I wonder if anyone else has noticed that he's the only one here who doesn't appear in the windows.  
  
I watch him as he moves along the next aisle, by the candy. A slim, not-so-tall, black leather-clad pillar of evil, stopping every now and then to pick something up, turn it over, put it back. The store is almost empty and the desk clerk is cleaning under her nails with a plastic fork, barely conscious that there are even customers, let alone that one is a non-reflective demon in a human shell. I look down at the bagels and wonder if Dawn meant cinnamon & raisin or onion.  
  
  
  
My name sounds weird coming from his mouth. He says the Xan part Zhaan', instead of Xan. I look up and he's wearing a pair of sunglasses he's just taken from the stand at the end. He stares at me, and the jet black-lenses relect my face back at me. Tosses me a pack of Twinkies.  
  
Will likes these.  
  
He turns away, takes off the sunglasses and tries another pair, and I wonder if (with those famous vampire super senses of his) he can hear me gritting my teeth.   
  
And since when did he start calling her Will'?  
  
  


* * * * * *  


  
  
  
  
  
Budweiser is like...a third of the price.  
  
Yeah, for a reason. It's tastes like bloody water.  
  
Tastes fine to me. Maybe something wrong with your taste buds.  
  
Know what good beer tastes like, and that tastes fuck all like it.  
  
Funny. I don't remember you minding when you living in my closet.  
  
He glares, eyes narrowed to killer-cold slits.  
  
Yeah well, beggars can't be choosers. Besides, I was insane.  
  
Not so crazy you couldn't find the porn channels.  
  
He snorts, and it's like a flash-frame of the old Spike. Raises his voice a little to make sure the guy in the plaid shirt looking at the blended whiskeys can hear him.  
  
Didn't have a choice. Not as if there's anything decent hidden under that bit of carpet by your bed, grins, Not for blokes any ways.  
  


  
* * * * * *  
  


She'll never believe he started it.  
  
And the fact that his nose is still oozing blood and I don't have a mark on me won't help matters. She'll take one look and assume the worst because these days he can't seem to do any wrong in her eyes. He has a soul now and that gives him a free pass. Just like it did for Angel. He's a person now'. He can be a good man'. Once I even heard her call him William' instead of Spike, and not jokingly either.  
  
I shoot a glance at him as I finish packing the stuff into the sacks. He's scowling slightly, pressing a thumb to the side of his nose and I think I can hear a tiny barely audible little clicking sound as he moves the tip back and forth.  
  
Sixty-two twenty.  
  
Oh. Sorry.  
  
Distracted, I turn back to the clerk, going into my back pocket for my wallet, and then his hand moves out in front. Slaps the money down on the counter.  
  
Keep the change love.   
  
It takes a moment or two to register, but when it does and I turn to look at him he's already halfway to the door, two of the paper sacks under each arm. The bottle of Jack Daniels is jammed into a pocket, pulling his coat down on one side, but somehow he still manages to walk with a knife-sharp swagger and a smoothness that draws the eyes of not only the clerk, but every living female in the store. The doors slide open with a swish, and he shoots a quick look back over his shoulder.  
  
Fucking hurry up will you.  
  
And like I said before.  
  
  
Short.  
  
  
  
Undead.  
  
  
  
  
Jerk.  


  
END OF PART 1  


  
  
  



	2. Part2: Willow

7-11/Part2: Willow  
  
Kennedy thinks penises are ugly.  
  
Sometimes the fact that she's - you know - so completely and totally gay kinda bothers me. She's been gay her whole life, even before she knew what gay was. She told me that when she was in kindergarten a boy asked her if she wanted to see his - you know - and she knew straight away right then that she absolutely did not. She says just that once was close enough. I didn't like to tell her that, up close, they're really not that bad looking. In fact, the right person's in the just the right kind of light, can actually look sort of nice. Sculptural even.   
  
A bit like a flower stamen.   
  
I don't think I could say that to her, although sometimes I like to imagine the look on her face if I did. Once when she was talking about how she 'doesn't understand the attraction', how men's bodies are all 'hard and lumpy' where ours' (she meant girls') are all soft, I had to stop myself from saying that actually I remember that Oz's was kind of bendy and silky and he had these cute little nipples that made you just want to nibble on them. I didn't though. I just went 'umhm' and kind of nodded instead, like I was agreeing. It seemed like the best thing to do. Finding out her new girlfriend used to like penises as well as black magic is probably more than she can safely handle, at the moment at least.   
  
I have to remind myself that, even though she knows far more than I do about being a lesbian (and about arm to arm combat), Kennedy's still pretty young. Sometimes when we're in bed at night, I try to explain to her how everything is connected, how everything in and on the earth affects everything and everyone else. She listens, but I can tell she doesn't like how intense I get. She says dumb flirty stuff to make me stop being so serious, like; 'so does that mean if I kiss you here, someone somewhere else is going to get all turned on?' Then she wonders why I don't want to talk any more and just want to go straight to sleep.  
  
Tara understood that kind of stuff a lot better, but then she pretty much understood everything. She knew things, felt them, instinctively, which meant she understood people better than anyone else I've ever met. For her a person's colour or their sex, or even their species wasn't really an issue. She'd had boyfriends and girlfriends, because with her it was always all about the soul. I loved that about her. That most of all I mean. That she was just the sort of person I wanted to be.  
  
I try to remember everything she ever told me, but I can't. Sometimes I think I'm losing her, that she's melting away into nothing and I get frightened. I try to remember the way her hair smelled just after a bath, the sound of her laugh in our room, when she was warm and pink-cheeked and wrapped up in sunlight and the bedsheets. I try to remember the song she sung to me the day we all sang, but I forget the tune. I'm afraid someday I'll forget all of those things, but I tell myself that even if I do it won't really matter. That I've made a place for her, that I carry her with me. Because she told me that. I sure I remember she told me that.  
  
Today the house seems way too noisy and full of people; all of them asking questions, talking about things I know must be important. I feel like I'm standing outside, watching them get on with the preparations we always seem to be making these days. I must look like just normal-Willow though because no one says anything. Normal-Willow working away on her computer, like she always does. Looking stuff up, researching new spells and ingredients and the history of evil, and how to fight something she's almost certain now can't be fought at all. Normal-Willow trying really hard not to look as terrified and lost and trembly as she really, really feels.  
  
I can't do this. And Buffy thinks I can. They all do. I know they think I'm going to find a way, find some incantation, a spell or maybe a useful and easy to follow manual: 'how to stop the ancient and omnipotent original source of all evil'. But I know something they don't, that no one here could know, and I don't just know it either. I feel it. In my bones. Like Tara would have too if she was still here. I know that it can't be stopped.  
  
Out of the corner of one eye I can see Kennedy looking over at me, but I deliberately don't look back. I know she's watching me, worried I'm too quiet, so I make a face like I've just found something interesting on screen; 'oh, hey...what's this?' and after a minute she looks away again, goes back to sharpening her big axe. She's not ready to hear what I have to say, none of them are.   
  
I realise Buffy is standing beside me, and automatically I assume the expression I know she wants to see; a slight frown with just a touch of studious zeal thrown in. But she doesn't ask me anything for a moment, just stands looking at the screen. She's tired, I can tell by the way she's standing, but when she finally asks if I'm ok her voice sounds calm and completely together.  
  
"I'm fine. Just wondering when Giles said he'd be back tonight. "  
  
"You want him to help you with the translation?"  
  
"The...? No..."  
  
Part of a spell that was amongst Wood's Mom's things, and I hadn't even remembered that that's what I was supposed to have been doing. I shake my head and I think maybe she's noticed now that I'm not quite here.  
  
"You sure you're ok?"  
  
I know she cares if I am, if I'm not, but the answer is just too huge, too wide and too scary for me to even start to put into words. Besides, her eyes look so sad and there are these big purple shadows under them that I know never used to be there. So I just smile.  
  
"Sure, I'm Triple-A.O.K, Buff. Just a little tired...little punchy maybe."  
  
She rubs my shoulder.  
  
"You should maybe go get some rest. I need you strong Will."  
  
and then turns back to the Potentials.   
  
"O.K, Julia, Amanda, you'll take point tonight. Rona, Shannon, I want you at the rear. Everyone have a weapon? OK. Any questions? Good. Let's move."  
  
And just like that she slips into the role of General. I find myself staring after her as she leads them all out of the house, wondering how it is she does that. How she can just turn the power off and on at will. How she always gets it done.  
  
"Pretty incredible."  
  
Spike's standing on the other side of the table, and it takes me a minute to realise that he's been there for a while. He watches Buffy go out the door with a little smile on his face, and then turns back to me.   
  
"She's tough on them, but she gets results."   
  
I don't mean to frown at him but I do.  
  
"You're not going too?"  
  
He shakes his head,  
  
"Don't need baby sitting these days do they? Regular little army."  
  
and then gives me one of his sly smirks.  
  
" 'Specially that little firecracker of yours. Damn near took my head off today."  
  
I think he's going to turn and go then, but he doesn't, and after a minute I have to look back at the screen. Scrolling down through another useless page I try not to let him see that his being there bothers me.   
  
I manage about fifteen seconds.  
  
"So you're just going to stand there?"  
  
"Well...yeah?"   
  
He crosses his arms super-casually, like he has nothing better to do,  
  
"Not in your way am I?"  
  
and I can tell now that he knows something's a matter. Spike has this annoying way of picking up on stuff that other people just miss. I used to think it was a vampire thing, like a sixth sense, but while Buffy was gone I got to know him a little better and realised that it's just him. He's pretty dumb in a lot of ways, but very smart in others.  
  
"Something bothering you, Red?"  
  
He's looking at me funny now, and I know that if I don't get away soon he'll start asking me exactly the kinds of questions no one else has had the nerve too up until now. I push my chair back and make sure not to look right at him.  
  
"You know, I think Xander forgot to get more toilet paper earlier. I think maybe I'll just take a walk down to the...market."  
  
He doesn't say anything and I make it all the way to the door. As I reach up for my coat I can see him following me with his eyes, like he's sizing me up for something. I know he's just trying to figure out what might be bugging me, but when he looks at me that way it always makes me kinda nervous. I know he's a totally different Spike from the one that almost killed me twice, but well, it's still a little hard to separate the two completely in my head. I don't hold it against him exactly, I mean it's not as if any of my other friends haven't ever tried to murder me, I'm just saying I don't altogether trust him yet, not the way that Buffy seems to anyway.   
  
Maybe that's the kind of trust you only have after you've been handcuffed by that someone to a bed naked though.  
  
"So you...ah...need anything? From the market I mean? Gum? Some chips or something?"  
  
I expect him to say cigarettes, because he always does, but he just looks at me. Doesn't say a thing.  
  
"No? OK? Well, see ya then!"  
  
I let the porch door slam behind me and let out a huge sigh of relief.   
  
Outside it's cool and just getting dark, and I realise that a long quiet walk is probably just what I need to shake out the black feelings of doom that are squatting in my head. The air is soft and silky, and it's not late enough yet to be worried about Bringers. Even so my ears are on red alert, and I nearly jump out of my skin when Spike says something right next to me.  
  
"S'nice night."  
  
"Jeez!!! Don't! Why do you do that?!"  
  
I can't see his face in the dark too well but I'm guessing he's probably smirking at me again, really enjoying just scaring the crap out of me.   
  
"Couldn't you just...you know...clear your throat next time or something?!  
  
He doesn't reply and, annoyed, I start to walk away. I expect him to head off now in the direction of the cemetery, but instead he just keeps pace with me. His legs are about the same length as mine, but his strides must be longer or something because it feels like he takes one to every three I do. He doesn't seem to notice that I'm walking faster and faster though and I start to think that, for a supposedly perceptive vampire, he can be a real jerk sometimes.  
  
"Don't you have somewhere else to go?"  
  
And again, I don't mean to sound so damned snippy with him, but well, he's being Spike. He gets it at last though, stops walking and lets me go on ahead.  
  
He makes me mad a lot of the time, and that's always made the being scared of him sort of fade into the background. But even before he got his chip taken out and got his soul back, he'd say something dumb or incredibly tasteless and I'd completely forget that he wasn't just a normal guy. I mean, I get where Xander's coming from and everything, but it's hard not to forget someone's evil when they're hanging around with your friends the whole time and talking about stuff. A lot of the time he can be pretty good company. He's been around for over a century so there isn't a knock-knock joke he hasn't heard, and he knows more about demon languages and the whole history of evil than even Giles, although more from the other working end of course. He's never very big with the details, but if you ask him the right questions and he's in just the right mood, he'll tell you pretty much anything.   
  
Besides Tara kinda liked him. I always think that that counts for something.  
  
The lights of the 7-11 are all glowey and warm yellow up ahead, and I realise when my tummy sends up a Hellmouth-worthy rumble that, what with the the heapin' helpings of self doubt, I haven't actually gotten around to eating anything today. And I can't see them yet from where I am, but I'm pretty sure at this moment there's a jumbo-size microwaveable taco in there somewhere with my name on. I've almost got it in my sights, when a shape lurches forward out of the shadows and grabs for my arm.  
  
"Willow!"  
  
O.K, and that means that my nerves are pretty much shot, because without even thinking about it I've thrown up a barrier that sends them half way across the parking lot. It takes me a couple more seconds to realise what's happened though before I move to go help the person up, but when I start to, I stop when I see that it's Amy. That takes me a moment or two as well of course, because she doesn't look an awful lot like the Amy I saw just a couple of weeks ago. Her hair is hanging round her face in kind of thick black clumps, and her eyes are all wide and glassy as if she hasn't slept for a month.  
  
"Amy. Hey."  
  
That's all I can manage, but she's sort of taken me by surprise. I'll probably think of something more cutting later, but right now that's the best I can do. I turn around to go inside.  
  
"You have to help me!"  
  
OK, and now she has my attention again because;  
  
"And no, I really don't."  
  
I try to walk away, but this time she's not letting me go so easily. I try to send her backwards again with a another heavier-duty version of the same spell, but she flicks it away like it's pixie dust. Her hands on my wrists are like claws, and I suddenly get that all the black stuff on her cheeks and in her hair isn't dirt. It's blood.  
  
"Listen to me Willow. You have to listen to me! Something's coming!"  
  
She's freaking me out a little now and, almost without meaning to, a crackle of magic flickers out of me and down to my fingers. I stop it almost as soon as it starts, but Amy's eyes go wide as she feels it and she grabs on even tighter.  
  
"No, don't stop! You have to give me some."  
  
Her eyes close and I recognise a look on her face that I've nearly forgotten, that I hope I'll forget. She's hungry, and giving her a taste of magic like I just did was like giving an appetiser to a starving man. Her hands grasp at thin air as I start to back away, and for some reason I'm suddenly reminded of this part in a movie I saw once; when a leper woman tries to touch Jesus' cloak.  
  
"Stay away from me."  
  
She's on her feet again, and suddenly she doesn't look pale and weak any more. She pushes back her hair and I see a flash of the old evil Amy behind her smile.  
  
"Here I come. Gonna try and stop me, witch?"  
  
She starts towards me and I concentrate on finding the light, the positive energy I know is there somewhere but somethings blocking it, must be blocking it, because all I can feel is blackness. Darkness is coming off her in huge, rolling waves and every spell I know is suddenly gone from my head. Amy's voice is soft and loud all at the same time, and as she leans in to speak to me I feel like I've been paralysed.  
  
"You can't stop me though can you? You can't stop anything. They all think you can but you can't."  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
I know she's not as strong as this. She's not as strong as me, but somehow she's pushing me down to the ground.  
  
"Just taking what you don't need."  
  
Her hands are fastened around my wrists like steel and I can feel something else now. She's trying to pull something out of me. Her eyes are jet black.  
  
"You have all this...power, Willow. And you've got no use for it."  
  
She's smiling and I see the magic crackling blue and purple as she drags it out of me. Her breathing is shallow and rapid and I realise that mine is too, that I'm feeling everything she's feeling. Terror and blackness and everything she's seen and done, everything that's been done to her. The faces of Bringers with their scarred eyes, a curved knife, and then something else. A man's face, handsome and at the same time, cold and cruel. Pure evil. His hand coming up to her face with a smile.   
  
"You won't be able to stop him, no one can. So you might as well...just..."  
  
"Just give it up, love"  
  
A sound like a whip-crack and just like that, it's gone. The sickening blackness and the pain and her thoughts in my head, and suddenly she's lying on the ground ten feet away, her eyes still jet-black and wide as saucers. My head's still spinning though, so for some reason I don't get straight away that her mouth is bleeding at the corner because she's just been hit. A hand reaches down in front of my face and I look up to see that it's Spike's.  
  
"You want to be careful who you stop and pass the time with, pigeon. Some nasty types hanging around down here at night."  
  
He shoots a quick glance over at Amy, but she's crawling away now on her hands and knees, looking every bit as pathetic and weak-looking as she was a few minutes ago when she first grabbed me. I let Spike help me up and then I just stand there wathcing her go. Quietly, he brushes the dirt off my coat with the flat of his hand.  
  
"Don't worry about it. Don't reckon she'll be coming back for seconds."  
  
He sounds so calm that I think maybe he doesn't realise what's just happened. I stare at him as he bends down to pick up the hat I was wearing that's dropped to the ground.  
"She was trying to..."  
  
"To kill you. Yeah, noticed that."  
  
He puts the hat back on my head, squints, and then straightens it.   
  
"Wouldn't hold it against her though, pet. People do weird stuff when they're hopped up on magicks."  
  
"I know!"  
  
I mean I do know that.  
  
"But she did something to me. I couldn't stop her. I felt as if I was....like she was turning me into something else. Like everything inside me was...evil again."  
  
I swallow, because I suddenly get that I came so close and never even saw it coming.  
  
"God, she was taking everything from me and it was all....all bad. There's so much....evil still left in me."  
  
I look at Spike, and Spike looks back.   
  
"Evil's in everyone. You and me, we just know her better is all."  
  
"Her? Evil is a her?"  
  
He glowers at me, narrows his eyes a bit.  
  
"Him then. We've seen him up close, got his number. Why do you think he wants us out of the picture so badly? He knows we can do some damage."  
  
I think he's right, but I don't say so. I just let him dust me off some more, and I watch as Amy finally gets to her feet on the other side of the parking lot and limps away. Spike looks up, sees where I'm looking and gives me a shove. Not very hard but hard enough to remind me of something.  
  
"Spike. Can I ask you a favour?"  
  
"Depends."  
  
He looks wary, and for a minute I forget he's a vampire. I forget about both the times he's tried to eat me, all the times he tried to kill Buffy and the time he tried to help Adam to. I even forget that sometimes he can be unfeeling and completely tactless and about the stupidest jerk I know, and I give him the biggest dumbest tightest hug I know how to give. His back goes stiffer than Giles' does, and when I finally let go his eyes are so narrow they're almost slits. I look at Spike and Spike looks back. Scuffs one foot in the dirt and clears his throat loudly.  
  
"So what? Not got enough for a taco then?"  
  
"Need about another fifty cents."  
  
He drops the coins into my hand, stops. Picks out a shirt button.  
  
"Give us a bite and we'll call it quits."  
  
I blink, stare at him and he sighs.  
  
"Of the taco you silly bint."  
  
"Oh. Right. Sorry."  
  
And then sometimes, I can pretend that he's just a normal guy. 


	3. Part3: Dawn

**Part 3: Dawn**

****

****Chao-Ann doesn't speak any English, so we all take it pretty easy on her as a rule, but this morning she's wearing my favourite blue silk halter neck, and when I finally catch her eye across the counter full of empty cereal boxes she just looks straight back. Gives me a great big smile, and strokes the front of it with her hand. 

"Lo zang maa?" 

I don't know what she said, but she looks pretty pleased with herself. I scowl as she lifts another spoonful of drippy, milky Cheerios into her mouth. She grins again, a little goofily I think, and this time a drop of milk makes it's way down her chin before slowly trickling off and onto my top. 

"Dawn, lei hou shan laa!" 

And I'm pretty sure that that wasn't an apology. 

Mom used to say that when I was little I was pretty good at sharing, which with Buffy as a big sister was sort of a survival skill. She has a lot of cool stuff and she's nearly always ok about me taking things, providing that I don't drink grape juice or go any where near the Doublemeat Palace with anything of her's on. Ever since I can remember we've borrowed each other's clothes and, as soon as I got tall enough to reach the top shelf of her wardrobe where she hides her vanity case, nail polish and make-up as well. It's a sister thing, all my friends say theirs' are just the same, and despite all the yelling and the secret-sewing-up-of-rips-in-the-seats-of-new-leather-pants, it's something you just accept. 

What's more difficult to handle is seeing a girl whose surname you can't even remember, wearing a pair of your strappy patent-leather sandals that cost roughly two month's allowance. 

"Are those _mine_?" 

Her name's Claudette. She's French, and I don't think she even lives here anyone. She's one of Xander's. 

"Are what your's?" 

I can feel my cheeks starting to heat up as she blinks at me, all eyelashes, and that's probably my Extralength Wonderlash as well. 

"I don't remember saying you could borrow my sandals, Claudette." 

She shrugs, a little tiny shrug as if she can hardly be bothered moving her beautiful evenly tanned shoulders, and turns back to check her reflection in the mirror by the door. 

"Elsa broke mine." 

I think really violent thoughts sometimes, thoughts I think even Buffy would be surprised at. She thinks I'm all ok with this, because that's what I tell her. She has so many thing to deal with right now, the very biggest thing being the - you know - _end of the world_, so I like to think it's kind of up to me to keep everything here at Slayer Central running smoothly. Everyone says I do a pretty good job and I'm starting to think that maybe organising people might be 'my thing'. Although my rota which was supposed to makes things a lot easier, didn't really work too well. With all the late-night training that Buffy and Spike have been doing with everyone, people kept swapping their turn, so after a week we just went back to the way things were before. 

Willow helps a lot, mostly with the laundry and the tidying up, and Xander does pretty much all the shopping and the man-stuff like mending things and mowing the front lawn. The other girls - the Potentials I mean - they nearly all pitch in, but funnily it's Andrew who I think probably helps out the most. He really likes to cook, and doesn't mind at all helping out with the ironing because he says he really loves the smell of fabric conditioner. 

I think maybe he misses his Mom a little. 

I don't really like to ask Giles to do anything, because I know that most of the time he's almost as stressed as Buffy is, and besides he's been away a lot. When he is here though, he does the washing up and I dry, and I tell him about everything that's happened while he's been gone. I call it giving him his _' Sunnydale Bulletin'_. Lately though, he's been asking more and more questions about Spike and, when I don't know all the answers, he makes that face that he always makes when he's trying not to look really worried. He doesn't trust Spike at all, which I should say isn't exactly an uncommon thing around here, and I think he worries a lot about what The First has done to him. 

A while ago it let slip that it isn't exactly finished with him yet, and we all know that that can't mean anything good. Anya says that she thinks it's just waiting for the right moment to 'activate' him again, and that it'll probably be when Buffy's at her most vulnerable. She thinks I don't know what she means by that, but I do. She means when Buffy and he are alone together. 

I don't tell anyone, not even Xander, but I worry too. Although not because I think Spike's going to suddenly go all fangy and grrrr again. Buffy beat the old Evil Spike a whole bunch of times when he first arrived in Sunnydale. She got a few bruises, and I think she was even scared of him for a little while, but he never really came close to hurting her. Not back then anyway. 

I didn't know too much about him in those days, I was still pretty young, but I remember Buffy telling me that if I ever saw him to run straight back inside the house and shout out for her (like I'd really have wanted to stick around if I saw someone like Spike hanging around our front lawn at night). I knew by the way she said it though that he must be someone bad, although of course I didn't even know what a vamp was in those days. But then that was before Mom started invited them in for hot chocolate and marshmallows, and way before Buffy started paying one money to help her kill his friends. 

Later, I got to I know him pretty well, or at least I thought I had until he did what he did last summer. Now I wonder if I ever really knew him at all. If he was ever my friend. Or if I ever sat next to him on the couch after Buffy died, crying so hard at some dumb Movie Of The Week that I thought we'd never be able to stop. I don't know which is the really real Spike, the one that's in there now or the one who was, because getting a soul makes you into a completely different person doesn't it? And I worry because I know that it's dangerous to rely completely on people, and because I see the way she looks at him these days. I worry because she's my sister, and because I love her. She's the strongest person I know, but I'm not sure if she's strong enough to get her heart broken all over again. 

"Dawn!!" 

Willow's calling me now, and from her voice I can tell she needs help with something. I start to go, but then turn to give Claudette one last hard stare. 

"Just..._ask_ next time, ok?" 

She just stares back, and then gives another of her tiny golden brown shrugs. 

"O.K." 

_I hope her skin ages prematurely._

Willow's standing in the hall upstairs, and without even asking I can see that what she needs is someone to help her carry the laundry down to the basement. Her arms are piled so high with towels and bed sheets, that I can only just see her eyes peeping over the top. I take two armfuls, and now I can see her properly again. 

"Thanks!!! Beginning to think I'd be found dead under there." 

There's a smile on her face, but it's a tired one not the good happy-Willow kind. 

"You're on laundry again? I thought it was Kennedy's turn today?" 

She gives a little nod, or at least I think she does, there are pillow cases piled up around her neck. 

"It is. But...she's out training with the two newbies." 

"Oh." 

She knows what the 'oh' meant, even though I think I hid it pretty well, and she squints at me sideways. Fights to get a better grip on the duvet that's trying to spring free of her arms. 

"Hey! I _volunteered,_ she didn't ask me! Besides, I don't mind." 

Kennedy is kind of a touchy topic with her at the moment. I think maybe they had an argument the night before last, because Willow was quiet all day yesterday, and when I came out of the bathroom after dinner she'd gone for a walk with Spike. She seems to be spending a lot of time lately not saying much, and I have a feeling that maybe some of it is to do with magic and with Kennedy. So, right now, it's probably a good idea to change the subject. 

"So you really love the smell of fabric conditioner too?" 

And it's ok. She laughs, and we head back downstairs. 

"He told you that too?" 

"I think maybe his dream job would be in a Fluff and Fold." 

She purses her lips, 

"Maybe an evil Fluff and Fold?" 

"Maybe. Or maybe one that specialises in demonic bed-linen." 

"Tough stains." 

"OOh, and spine-rippage?" 

"All common problems." 

The basement's empty when we get down there, which makes a change from usual. Normally either Spike's down here trying to stay out of everybody's way, or the few Potentials that smoke are hanging out pretending like they're studying. I tend to stay out of here when they're around because, even though I know they like me ok, I think they worry I'm going to narc. 

"So you manage to translate those things that were in Wood's bag?" 

Shaking detergent out of the box, Willow nods, but I can tell the news isn't of the good. 

"Yeah. Some great temporary immobilisation spells, and probably the most effective charm to cure a Vyudnarr demon's bite that there is, but that's all." 

She sighs and slaps the machine's drawer shut. 

"Nothing that will help. I mean, not unless The First suddenly decides to unleash a whole bunch of Vyudnarr's on us." 

"And that _Vyudnarr _be very likely I suppose?" 

She shakes her head. 

"No. They're pretty rare these days, and besides I think they tend to hunt solo." 

Stops, blinks. 

"That was a joke, right? Sorry. Brain not quite working at full capacity yet today." 

She looks so tired and sad suddenly, that I try to think of something to make her feel better. Bundle the rest of the knickers and bras I'm holding into the machine and force the door closed. 

"Hey! You need waking up? Maybe we could go get you a hot cup of java down at The Pump?" 

She's reading the washing cycle instructions from the book, trying to decide if the mix of sheets and underwear is coloureds or whites, and only looks up for a second shaking her head. 

"Sorry, Dawnie, I love to..." 

Turns the dial and waits until the water kicks in. 

"...I've just got so much to do today is all. Maybe you could ask Anya?" 

I pull a face, but I don't really mean it. I like Anya ok these days, even though she still treats me like I'm still a little kid sometimes. I just don't feel like I can handle a conversation with her today. I like the fact she's so honest, more people should be honest about what they think, but she's not really what you'd call tactful. If my hair needs washing or I have a zit, she always feels the need to tell me, without ever stopping to think I might already know; 

_"Well then why haven't you tried to cover it up?"_

__

_"Maybe because I couldn't even get into the bathroom this morning? There was a line five people deep."_

__

_"I have this special skin-coloured stick I saw advertised right after Jeopardy."_

__

_Gets it out of her purse and shows me. Puts it away again._

__

_"I'd say you could borrow it, but I don't really think it'd do any good."_

__

_Squints at my chin sideways,_

__

_"No. That's a real monster you've got there."_

__

__

__So who am I left with? Xander and Buffy are at work. The Potentials that aren't out on a weapons buying spree are either way too annoying to be considered or can't speak English, and Willow's busy with her Scooby homework. I can hardly believe it, but suddenly I find myself wishing I'd actually gone to school today instead of telling Buffy I had important research to be getting on with. 

"Hey, Dawnie. Why don't you go see a movie or something?" 

Willow's looking at me now like I'm some kind of pathetic friendless charity case, and I realise she must have just caught a little bit of what I was thinking. She can do that sometimes, although she tries not to actually read our minds unless it's an emergency. It means that she just gets a lot of what you're thinking without you having to say it. She says it's just like being extra-perceptive. 

"I think I saw they were showing some really good foreign film today. Something romantic. You should go. Take a day off. Enjoy yourself." 

I half smile, starting to like the idea, but then remember my hooky-status. 

"Yeah, but what if someone from school sees me?" 

She frowns, picks up a stray sock that we've missed and drops it on top of the washer. Raises her eyebrows. 

"Well then, you'll see them too. And why aren't they at school?" 

She has a point. And it's such a dull day to be hanging round the house, with nothing to do and no one to talk to, and after I 've sat in my room for another twenty minutes or so looking at the piles of sleeping bags and dirty clothes lying on every available surface, I decide her idea is a pretty good one. The only problem is, I hate going to the cinema alone. 

"You want to go see a movie, Chao-Ann?" 

She looks up from sharpening her axe and cocks her head. 

"Mat yeh?" 

I realise she doesn't get it, so I do the official pantomime of a movie, cranking the handle of a film camera. She blinks, still confused, so I mime eating popcorn then pointing and laughing out loud. She watches me for a minute before she shakes her head, 

"Chee seen!" 

and goes back to her axe. 

I spend a long time standing outside the bathroom door, considering asking Claudette, before I hear the shower start up and her voice start belting out a song I'm pretty sure is by Celine Dion. Closing my eyes I wonder at just how desperate I've become, before walking slowly back downstairs. 

Not that desperate. 

Not yet. 

"Anya, it's Dawn." 

"Hey, Dawn! What is it? Is Xander all right? What's happened?" 

She goes from perfectly calm to out-and-out panic in about three seconds, and I smile as I realise that she still always asks about Xander first. 

"Nothing's happened. Everyone's fine. I just wanted to know if you wanted to come see a movie with me this afternoon? At the movie theatre I mean." 

She draws a breath in, and I can almost hear her frowning on the other end of the line. 

"Has everyone else gone out?" 

I sigh. 

"Yes." 

"Is John Cusack in it?" 

I tell her that I'm pretty sure he isn't. It's a foreign film, 'Wings Of Desire'? And it's maybe even in black and white. 

"O.K, well...no then. But thanks for asking me. Last I mean. Thanks for asking me last." 

"No problem." 

I put on my jacket and stand by the kitchen door for another minute, before I finally give up and walk back into the sitting room and drop into a chair. I hate that I don't have anything to do when everyone else I know is busy doing something. And I hate that all the stuff they have to do is so important they can't even take a break for two hours to spend some time with me. And then, just because I'm getting into it now, I decide to just go ahead and hate myself for being me and for being always so freakin' needy. With all the self-loathing going on, it's almost a full sixty seconds before I notice Spike. 

"What's up, bitesize? No one to play with?" 

My scowls never work on him, so I just roll my eyes instead and wait for him to give up and go away. 

"If you're looking for something to do, you could go play some darts out in the garage with the boy. " 

He means Andrew. He always calls him that. 

"I'm telling you, he's piss poor. You'd beat him no problem." 

Out of the corner of my eyes I see him take out a cigarette, even though he knows he's not supposed to smoke anywhere upstairs in the house, and suddenly I realise that maybe there's someone I can be more mad at than myself today. 

"You're not supposed to smoke in here." 

He glances up, surprised, so I go on. 

"We took a vote. It was unanimous. Except for Anya obstained." 

"That right?" 

I look straight over at him, just to show I mean it, and he raises an eyebrow slowly before putting them away. He doesn't look angry, but then he's pretty good at covering things up now. 

"Anything else I'm doing that bothers you?" 

"We took a vote on you keeping your blood in the regular refrigerator as well." 

He cocks his head, 

"And?" 

"And it's gross. Most of us are vegetarians you know?" 

I know my voice sounds harder than I want it to, but when he gives a small nod, I feel another stab of anger at just how easily he gives in to me now. 

"I can keep it down in the cellar one if it bothers you." 

If it bothers me? Since when did Spike care if something he wanted to do bothered me? And suddenly I'm looking at him and I'm remembering another conversation, just two years ago, in this exact same room. 

_"Can't you drink that outside? It's making me feel nauseous?"_

__

_"So go play in your room. No one's making you watch me."_

__

_"This is my house!"_

__

_"When I'm here you do as I say."_

__

_"What? So you're my Father now?"_

__

_He narrows his eyes at me,_

__

_"Be fat lot of good if I was, wouldn't I?"_

__

_"Shut up!"_

__

_"You shut up!"_

__

_"You are such...a jerk!!!"_

__

_"Yeah well, you're a brat."_

__

_"Well, at least...at least I'm not drinking pig's blood out of...out of Tupperware because I've...because I've had my nuts taken off by the...by the fucking military."_

__

_He stares at me for a long moment, holding the cup up to his lips._

__

_"You are such a bitch sometimes."_

__

_I feel myself wanting to smile, but I don't._

__

_"Yeah well. You're still a jerk."_

__

__

__The old Spike would never have said what he just said - all meek and do-as-I-say. So I say that to him. 

"You know the old Spike would have just told me to go stick it." 

His eyes come up, fierce bright blue, and he stares back at me and suddenly it's like the temperature in the whole house has dropped. 

"The old Spike would have killed you before you'd even sat down." 

"Would that have been the Spike whose ass my sister kicked all over town? Or the one who would have been blinded by a crippling migraine?" 

He takes a deep breath inwards and eyes me coldly. 

"Maybe the Spike who was out gutting little girl's your age back when your grandma was a toddler." 

I fold my arms. 

"You don't scare me any more you know." 

His eyes narrow at that, and his chin comes up a fraction. 

"Maybe I should." 

"Why? Because you've got the chip out now? Or because your gonna go postal on us again the minute The First snaps it's fingers?" 

"Because now I have free will." 

"And what's your free will telling you?" 

He looks away towards the door, and for a minute I think he's just going to walk out. Like he does all the time these days, whenever there's shouting or an argument he doesn't want to have. 

"It's telling me I've got a job to do. That there's more important things that sitting around this house feeling sorry for myself all day." 

He stoops down to pick something off the floor and I see it's the other one of the socks that Willow found - bright yellow and pink stripes. He looks at it blankly for a moment, and then turns back to drop it on the desk. 

"And it's also telling me not to take any shit from little girls who think they're tough." 

I open my mouth to say something back, but the way he's looking at me suddenly makes me forget what it was. His face is a whole mix of emotions that I can't read, and after watching me for a second longer, he reaches down into his duster pocket and brings out his cigarettes again. Takes one out of the pack, taps the filter end really deliberately and then lights up. 

He sucks in an extra long breath, and then let's it out again with a long theatrical sigh. 

"Aaaahhhhhhhh." 

I want to stay mad at him, but suddenly I can feel a smile fighting to get out. And it's good feeling. It's a feeling I haven't had in a while. 

"So are the important things - things that need to be done today? Or are they the sort of things that could wait...say...a couple of hours?" 

"Maybe they could wait. You got something specific in mind?" 

I shrug, because it never pays to look too desperate. 

"There's a really great old movie playing." 

It's not the old Spike smirk I remember, but it's close enough. 

"S'long way to the theatre, niblet. Don't fancy my chances in the day." 

"You could ride in the trunk? I've got my learner's permit now you know." 

"An offer no one could refuse." 

He stubs out his cigarette in a coffee cup that someones left by the telephone and I get up, shove my hands down in my pockets and look across at him. 

"O.K, then how about I go down to the 7-11and rent something. It's cheaper and less likely to cause permanent scarring." 

He sniffs, scuffs a boot heel along the floor. 

"You're taste in movies isn't mine, pet." 

"I'll call you, tell you what's there. Then you can choose. OK?" 

"Nothing with John Cusack in though." 

"Can you at least try not to listen in to my private conversations." 

And now he's looking at me with this strange intense kind of look on his face, and it reminds me of a time we sat on the couch together, both crying so hard at some dumb Movie Of The Week that I thought we'd never stop. It reminds me of the way he always knew what to say when I was hurting, and how he never told me things were going to get better, because they wouldn't, they'd just get easier to bear. And it reminds me of how honest he is, and how much I really missed him when I knew he was gone. 

I want to tell him that it's ok. That, maybe if he plays it straight and doesn't fuck it all up with Buffy, that we might be friends again some day. Because maybe he's not so different from the old Spike after all, and maybe there is a lot of him squeezed in there alongside the soul. I think all of it, but I don't say it. I just say; 

"Jerk." 

He squints back at me, exhales a deep lungful of smoke with a frown. 

"Brat." he says. 


	4. Part4: Giles

**Part 4: Giles**

Aeroplanes rarely take off or land on time in Sunnydale. 

This is a fact with which I am becoming increasingly familiar with these days. Erratic scheduling, sudden and bizarre rearrangement of departure times. I would make some kind of formal complaint of course, but I'm fairly sure that most of the major problems are the direct result of demonic intervention. That or the increasingly insane level of paranoia that seems to have infected every aspect of the aviation industry in the last two years. Either way, it's bloody inconvenient because, yet again, my flight has quietly touched down on the Hellmouth in the middle of the night and no one is here to meet me. So, after several more attempts to get through to the house or Xander's mobile phone, I call a cab firm instead - one of the last few that I'm fairly certain still employs 100% human drivers - and go outside to wait. 

Over seven years now in this godforsaken place, and I can honestly say I've never cultivated even an ounce of sentimental feeling for it. It is, to me, exactly what it is. A Hellmouth. The cosmic concentration of every conceivable evil and sorrow to ever be visited on the human race, neatly contained within thirty square miles of prime Californian real estate. The fact that it also contains the four most important people in my life only serves to fuel my hatred of it. It isn't safe here and neither are they and, despite the fact that I have every confidence in both their abilities as fighters and their good sense as adults, I fear for them every single second that I'm away. 

When my taxi finally draws up I am relieved to discover that the driver appears to be merely extremely irritating and talkative, character traits that, Anya aside, are still largely considered good indicators of humanity. The majority of demons rarely indulge in small talk. His manner however is far from civilised, and I am left to stow away my own luggage as well as clear the back seat of the ruin of tacos and beer cans that covers it. 

"Had a whole lot of college kids just back there. Horsing around and such. On their way out of town like everyone else I guess. Ok for some. Some of us got to earn a living still." 

Looking up at him, I notice that his mouth houses rows of perfect gleaming white teeth that form a startling counterpoint to the rest of his appearance. 

"Where you headed?" 

"Revello Drive please." 

And I open my newspaper in the hope that it will curtail any further attempts at conversation. 

I'm a little surprised to see a recent edition if truth be told. The situation being what it is, I find it nothing short of miraculous that the residents of this town are still finding a way to go on with their everyday lives. 

The headline is of course, in the great tradition of the Sunnydale Star, complete bunkum: 

::MORE DEATHS AS COSTUMED GANGS CONTINUE REIGN OF TERROR:: 

Unable to read on I fold the thing up again and look out the window instead. 

A car is on fire on the corner of John. F. Kennedy and third, and although I barely glance at it I can't help but notice that it's very similar in model and colour to Xander's. It does no good to worry of course but now my heart is lurching along a little faster than before, wondering if perhaps the reason there was no answer to his cell is right back there on that darkened street. If maybe he's there too, blackened beyond recognition, Willow beside him still strapped into the passenger seat. 

"Good God, man. Pull yourself together." 

"What? You say something? You want me to pull over?" 

I spoke without thinking where I was and now I seem to have roused him again, opened the conversational flood gates. I sigh and flatten out the paper again in the hope that he will take the hint. 

"No. Thank you. Just...thinking out loud." 

God, I need a drink. 

And I know deep down that the desire isn't just psychological any more. Lord knows I've downed enough alcohol of late to warrant more than just a raised eyebrow or two amongst my Council colleagues, if I had any left that is. It's becoming more than just a bad habit, these days I think of it as medicinal - for the shock - and the dawning realisation that all they're likely to have back at the house is warm American beer is suddenly to much. Reaching forward I rap sharply on the glass partition. 

"Can we make a stop at the convenience store on Elm? I need to pick up a few things." 

Of course now I come to think of it Spike would most probably have something approximating spirits down in his cellar, but the idea of interacting with him more than is absolutely necessary on this visit makes me feel faintly nauseous. Besides, Buffy made her feelings about his place in the team only too clear to me, and any further conversations between us on the same subject would be little more than pointless. He does only what she tells him to do after all. Whilst he is _himself _at least. 

As I step out of the cab I notice that my driver's name is Bela and wonder how long his family has lived here. 

"I'll just be five minutes." 

I smile a little tightly and he flashes the teeth back at me, 

"Meter's running on you buddy." 

before reaching in the back for my paper. Briefly I spare a thought for my precious bags piled in his trunk, before deciding that I might as well risk his honesty as his indignation at my mentioning them. If nothing else life on the Hellmouth has taught me to be fatalistic and, turning away with a grimace, I walk inside. 

As well as the whisky I find I need a new toothbrush and, after pondering the competitive merits of ones with flexible heads and ones with cross-ply bristles, I settle instead for a plain white rigid one; nondescript and with no function other than the one is was intended for. Test it furtively against the back of my hand before committing it to the basket. 

As I pass the jelly donuts I'm moved to add of carton of them as well, unable to prevent a smile when I remember their mandatory inclusion during research nights at the library. More often than not Xander's only really useful contribution. Back when times were simpler, when the apocalypses were ten-a-penny. When Buffy was still young and full of hope, and when we all knew for certain which side everyone was fighting on. Frowning, I take the carton out and place it back on the shelf. Probably best not to encourage them to dwell on the past when our futures were all still so uncertain. Focus is what they need; focus and strong leadership, and right now it seems unlikely they're getting either. At her best Buffy has always shown herself to be an exceptional strategist, clear-headed and completely single-minded - some might say stubborn - but at this time, and it pains me to even think it, her judgement is fundamentally flawed. 

Once, many years ago, I asked her if she would be willing to give up Dawn to save the world, knowing exactly what her answer would be. The fact that she could not, that she would not even _conceive_ of sacrificing one life to save any number of others, remains one of the many aspects of her character that I deeply admire. However, admirable as they are, I now fear that those same virtues will see her fail now as a leader. 

The market is virtually deserted but over by the door I see a young man standing, half in shadow, looking across at me. I can't see his face but I'm fairly sure now that he's an ex-student, one of the few members of Miss...of Jenny's cursed computer club that obviously didn't kill himself or go insane. Against my better judgement I acknowledge him with a smile and see him half-smile back, lifting one hand a little. I turn my attention back to the shelves and am absently comparing the prices of single malts when somebody says my name. 

"Rupert." 

Nobody here calls me that of course, none of them consider themselves old enough yet. Giles has become both my first name and my last, so when I hear myself addressed as 'Rupert' anywhere within Sunnydale limits I am instantly on my guard. Because only two people ever call me 'Rupert' while I'm here, and at any one time I would happily drive a stake through the heart of either one of them. 

"Spike." 

I turn and he's standing just half a foot or so away, so close that if he'd wanted to he could have reached forward and snapped my neck without my ever knowing. He isn't smiling exactly but I'm sure he's thinking something along the exact same lines. 

"Getting a bit lax aren't we? Letting me sneak right up on you like that?" 

One of his eyebrows raises a little, and this time he does smile. Predatory and cool. 

"Maybe been out of the thick of it little too long. Too many warm Mai Tais and not enough cold steel." 

He can smell it of course; the alcohol level in my blood, as well as the day old sweat on my palms and probably even the panini I had for my breakfast this morning before leaving Rome. I remember a tutor at the academy once postulating that a healthy mature vampire should be able to differentiate between anything up to eighty-five separate scents whilst hunting down his or her prey. Quite how he came up with the number is quite beyond me. Perhaps he went down to Highgate cemetery with a clipboard and a crucifix every night. 

"What are you doing here?" 

The smile fades a little and he takes a step back, opening the distance and thus lessening the threat between us. 

"Just getting in a few things." 

He sniffs, and his gaze slips past me, lingers on the young man by the exit for a moment. 

"We ran out of the pink Pop Tarts." 

I roll my eyes. Pop Tarts. Of course. Another well-documented vampyric practice Professor Simpson failed to mention in any of his many papers. 

"Do you have a car with you?" 

He frowns slightly before realising that I, obviously, do not. Shrugs and waves a hand vaguely towards the parking lot, 

"Nicked the jerkmobile for half an hour. Harris'll never notice. Out cold on ribs and special sauce." 

and squints through the glass, 

"You come in a cab?" 

"No one answered when I called the house." 

"Yeah, well, " 

He closes one eye, and I think I may see the merest trace of disapproval. 

"She took all the birds out on the rampage didn't she? Even the little one, one you bought back last week. Said they need to go out, 'clock some field time', mix it up a bit." 

I can almost hear Buffy saying the words and I don't doubt he's telling me the truth. What I don't understand is why he's standing here telling me. 

"Trouble is with things they way they are round here at the moment, simple patrol's a bit more complicated than it used to be, you know?" 

He shrugs again and seems to be looking around on the floor for something. Good God, don't tell me he's taken to smoking cigarette buts. 

"And you are here now because?" 

His eyes slide back to my face and there's just a prickle of annoyance there, because he knows what I mean even though he pretends he doesn't for a second. 

"Told you didn't I?" 

and he rattles the box in my face with a touch of venom, 

"Pop Tarts!" 

Gritting my teeth I suppress the intense desire to twat him, and try sarcasm instead. 

"I mean Spike, that if things are so _very dangerous_ out there, don't you think you'd be better employed as back-up rather than pastry cook?" 

A long silence, and his expression is completely unreadable to me. A muscle is twitching violently at the side of his jaw though, and I seem to remember that that phenomenon usually signals an outburst of some kind. Distracted suddenly, I notice for the first time that he is wearing his trademark murderous black leather coat again. It's the first time I've seen it on him since he took up residence in the basement of the Summer's house, and it's absence - knowing what it symbolised for him - had been quite noteworthy. With it, all his former swagger and posturing seems to have returned, and if I didn't know better I'd swear this was the exact same despicable creature that slunk out of the shadows five years ago to assassinate my Slayer. 

Stepping in a little closer to me, his lip curls back to reveal the trace of a lengthening fang, a flash of golden eye. 

"If you're trying to say what I think you're saying Rupert, you better think twice before you throw that stone." 

"Meaning?" 

"Meaning that that's one fuck of a big glass house you're standing in right there." 

A step back and we're face to face again and, soul or no soul, he's still just what he is to me. So I speak very softly, just so he knows that he's the only one this is meant for. No one else. 

"If I suspect for one second that you're a danger to her, you know what I'll do don't you?" 

His gaze glints, sapphire to gold and back again. A sharp terse nod. 

"I do. Same thing goes for you too." 

I must betray a little of my surprise because he rolls his head to one side. Regards me with blank humourless eyes. 

"You get any more of your fancy ideas about sacrificing the Slayer or any of her immediate for the greater good? You're going to have to go through me first. Get it?" 

and his expression turns fiercely possessive, zealous. 

"World goes to hell, it's not taking her with it. Not this time. She's staying put, along with the kid and the witch and the dimwit and anyone else she feels like she needs to make her happy. Don't care if I have to take the whole bloody Hellmouth on all by myself, she's going to get what she deserves. She gets to live." 

He's breathing hard now, and silently adding that one to Simpson's ever lengthening list of oversights, I find myself suddenly feeling something that isn't exactly 'like', isn't quite 'admiration', but is ever so slightly like empathy. A little like understanding. 

"And how are you going to do that? Protect her I mean," I say. 

He flinches and glowers at me. 

"Like I say. Don't care what I have to do." 

"But we have no idea what the First has planned for you, why it's left you alone till now." 

I narrow in and he sees the truth of what I'm saying. 

"Has it ever occurred to you that it might be just biding it's time? Waiting for just the right moment to turn you, use you against her?" 

He chokes back a snarl, and I see that it has. Twists away, mashing his fist around the cardboard pack in his hand, 

"What else can I do? If I leave her, he wins. If I stay, he wins. If he's going to use me - he's going to. If he isn't then maybe I can still do some good here." 

"And run the risk of hurting her? Where she's most vulnerable? She _trusts _you completely!" 

His eyes widen, gape-mouthed and he stares back at me. 

"She cares too much about you to ask you to leave herself. She's not strong like that." 

The emotions in his face shimmer like tears and for a second I think that, impossibly, he's going to cry. Like he did the day she died, arms wrapped tightly around his own body, rocking and keening silently like a child. Stubbornly refusing to move even as the sun rose up, resisting until I finally picked her up and carried her away. 

"Can you help me?" 

His voice is steady, but I know what is in his heart now and I fear for her. I fear for my Buffy. 

"Yes." I say, quietly, "I think perhaps I can." 


End file.
